Epiphany
by Blue not Purple
Summary: The world had forgotten, yet they were ever-existing, omnipresent, hurling themselves into the fragile cycle of life that shaped their tragedies.


**posting before i regret anything.**

**don't own.**

...

_December 1, 1918_

_Reykjavik, Sovereignty of Iceland_

"You know what this means, little brother."

"Yes, Danmörk."

"You are aware that I will no longer be providing you with financial support."

"Yes."

"You will convict your own criminals, and take the matters of corruption, trafficking, and other such issues into your own hands."

"Of course."

Denmark leaned back in his seat, blue eyes glittering. His lips were curved in his usual smile that bordered a smirk, yet they were taut in a way that suggested more of a grimace. "I'm impressed, Ice. You've matured."

A swell of pride bloomed in Iceland's chest and he curled his fingers until they dug into his palms. His blood—his people's blood—rushed hot through his veins, in the fervor of those a step away from freedom, but he kept his composure and his eyes cool, as cool as the ice he had been named for. "The contract is binding, then," he said, jumping to the point. "Is that all?"

Denmark spread his arms apart. "You are now officially a sovereign state."

The Kingdom of Iceland slid back his chair and rose to his feet, in one fluid motion. Keeping his eyes on the smooth black door behind Denmark, he moved swiftly past the other nation, taking long strides until the tip of his boot kissed the worn oakwood. The metal handle was cool against his fingers as he twisted the door ajar.

The doubt came then; the guilt and fear and uncertainty, and a sense of regret so overwhelming it almost made him look back. Almost.

"Goodbye, Denmark," Iceland said, as apathetically as he could manage, and left the room before second thoughts could seize his mind.

The war had ended two weeks ago. Iceland still woke to the smell of blood, coughing on smoke from his nightmares. The Great War had simply spluttered and died, leaving behind a cautious quiet to his land that he rather enjoyed. December frost bathed in the young light of morning glistened with shards of gold and silver, and the tips of the barren trees were fire against the blinding white winter. Some distant thunder was the only sound that interrupted the muted dawn. Iceland breathed in the chill of his country and sighed, watching as his breath clouded momentarily before dissipating into the air.

He wasn't truly independent, of course not, but he was the next best thing. He and his Danish neighbor were equals now, united under one king, side-by-side politically and—dare he hope—emotionally; perhaps in this new light his fellow nations would recognize his prominence in Scandinavia at long last.

Perhaps they would see him as one of them.

Peals of children's laughter woke the slumbering streets of Reykjavik, and Iceland himself chuckled softly at his wasted thoughts. He was barely a nation yet, unlike Norway and Sweden and all the European mainland countries whose identities and cultures were like a foreign tongue. He was a prisoner free of his chains but not his cell, and that could only be shaken open by the storm of another great war. Not that he would welcome one; Iceland preferred this fragile peace to any higher status among the nations.

Snow settled on his cheek and melted in streams down his face. Iceland glanced to his left and found two grinning young children, a boy and his sister, with chunks of snow grasped in their hands. The boy flung his remaining snowball at Iceland and the two of them ran away giggling, their laughter trailing after them like a shadow. The island nation watched as they chased each other down the street, before disappearing around the corner.

The city slowly came to life at the same pace as the rising sun. It seemed only seconds before the streets were buzzing with groaning car engines, the clip-clopping of horses, and the music of people, his beautiful people. Rich aromas spiced the air, preying on the hungry pedestrians. At the corner bakery shop, a young lover shyly offered a bouquet of flowers to the store's owner, in exchange for a few chaste kisses and a doughnut.

Iceland had been so engrossed in studying the rebirth of his capital that he almost didn't notice the flakes peppering his skin were scalding hot instead of a stinging cold. He flinched in pain, a little too lately, and wiped the substance off his face. It came away on his fingers as dull gray powder.

Ash.

He saw the explosion before he heard it. The bakery shop at the crossroads erupted in billows of fire, instantly melting all snow within a three hundred feet radius. Something was clawing through his stomach and Iceland keeled over, screaming at the utter _agony_ of it as all around him his city exploded, time after time after time until _oh God he wanted to die_ _make it **stop**_. The azure of Icelandic sky was poisoned with leaden smoke, casting heavy shadows that shifted day to night. His breathing sounded like a broken flute and his lungs were cracking, crumbling, drowning his insides with blood.

And his people. They were shrieking, their soul-wrenching wails melting into his own cries. The explosions never stopped; they echoed every scream, a _boom _that made his heart clench and his whole body tremble. Iceland was vaguely aware of someone's sharp fingernails digging into his arm, and being yanked down the sidewalk, the uneven surface of the ground scraping painfully at his skin. It was nothing compared to the monster eating him from the inside out, so he closed his eyes and let himself be dragged like a rag doll.

When they stopped, he was jerked upright onto his knees. Iceland forced his eyes open, lashes sticky with hot tears, and took in his surroundings. The Scandinavian was in the middle of an open city square; a crowd of people encircled him, their postures stiff and unnatural. Iceland felt a thousand pairs of eyes sear holes into his shaking body, and he wilted a little more at their accusing stares.

"In the name of the Lord," he heard a voice say, "we, the people of Iceland, damn this abomination to Hell. This creature is a spawn of the Devil himself, and it is the duty of those who follow God to send it back to where it crawled to Earth."

Iceland didn't understand. Why were they treating him this way? He had not been born from the Devil; he had been born from the very people who were condemning him, from their blood and sweat and tears, from their euphoria, their passion, their desire for greatness. He suffered when his people did, loved as they loved, wept as they wept. Everything that defined him lay in their hands. Iceland opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his voice had long abandoned him and all that came out was an inaudible croak.

"Pray for God's forgiveness, monster," the same voice told him. Iceland feebly reached for the speaker, but was struck to the ground by a rough blow to his cheek. The last thing he felt was the unwavering barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, harsh and bitter and colder than death.

**...**

_Present Day_

_Kópavogur, Republic of Iceland_

Emil was out of coffee. He stared despondently at the bottom of his mug, wondering if it was worth leaving his air-conditioned apartment for fuel enough to last him a few more hours. The afternoon light pouring through the window was glinting off his desk now. Surely only minutes ago it had been glaring at the clock on the wall.

As he worked his tired pencil across the last line of the page, Emil felt his eyelids begin to droop and pushed them back with his thumbs. The second he let go to pick up his pencil, however, immediately his eyes fell shut and he almost gave himself a concussion when his head made a beeline for the table.

No, this definitely wasn't going to work.

Pushing back his chair with a sigh, Emil groggily rose to his feet, hoping the caffeine in his blood would serve him well in the five minute walk to the café. A blast of hot air greeted him as he stepped into the heat of mid-June. The streets were oddly devoid of people for this time of the day, Emil noticed. Blame it on the weather.

The bells hanging above the glass door of the shop jingled softly in welcome as he entered its cool interior. Emil was the only customer besides a weary-looking woman with her eyes glued to a Macbook. The barista glanced up at his arrival, offering a warm smile.

"Good morning, Emil!" the café owner chirped in his Finnish accent, already typing in the college student's order. "Quite the early bird today, aren't you? Black, no sugar?"

"You know me too well, Tino," Emil said, setting a stack of coins on the counter. He frowned. "Morning?"

"Oh, my," Tino sighed, as he poured fresh coffee beans into a large grinder. "Don't tell me you worked the night away again. That can't be good for your health."

Well, that explained where everyone had gone. "College is hell. I don't think sleep is on the agenda."

"You should go out every now and then, even so," said the barista. "You're still a kid! Enjoy your youth while it lasts."

Emil's cheeks reddened. "I'm not a child, Tino. In two years this won't be the only place I'll go to for drinks."

The Finnish man laughed and placed a steaming cup in front of Emil. The bittersweet fragrance of coffee wafted into the air, making the Icelander's mouth water. "Oh, and before I forget..." Tino rummaged around the sleek silver refrigerator looming behind the counter and brought out a cheesecake dotted with plump raspberries, grinning the whole while. "Happy birthday, Emil!"

The college student blinked in surprise, abruptly finding himself out of words. Instinct made him reach for a couple more krona from his pocket, but Tino put a hand on his arm before he could dig out any money. "It's on the house, kiddo," the shop owner assured him, to which Emil muttered something about being over legal age under his breath. Tino rested his elbows on the counter and gave his customer another one of his pleasant smiles, violet eyes twinkling with mirth. "So, how old are you now, Mr. Steilsson?"

"Nineteen, I guess." The way the number rolled off his tongue engendered some sort of déjà vu at the back of his mind. Emil picked his coffee and cake up hesitantly. "...Thanks, Tino. I really appreciate it."

Tino laughed lightly, shaking his head. "We're friends, Emil. It's no big deal."

Emil glanced out the large glass panels at the front of the café. The sun was crawling up the the steeples of the church across the street, tracing its tips with gold. Classes would start in a few hours, and he still had a paper to write. It couldn't be too long before his rambunctious neighbor rose from the sleeping dead to infect Emil's apartment with ear-splitting heavy metal, either.

"You should hurry along now," said Tino, voicing Emil's thoughts. "I didn't mean to keep you here like this. Enjoy your cake, all right?" Another beam.

Emil turned back to the Finnish barista, allowing the most minuscule of smiles to grace his lips. It was ridiculous how secretly—embarrassingly—affectionate he was of Tino. The instant they had met, he'd felt an odd connection to this good-natured, easy-going man. Something akin to brotherly love, he supposed, though he had a feeling there was more to it than what could be put into words.

"Yeah," Emil replied absently, half-occupied with his thoughts. "Yeah, I'll do that."

The woman in line behind him cleared her throat in impatience, tapping her foot to the beat of Rimsky-Korsakov's _Flight of the Bumblebee._ Muttering an apology and quick farewell to Tino, the nineteen year old made his way past the village of tables and back to the world outside.

As he waited to cross the street, Emil's phone hummed urgently, causing its owner's brows to furrow in annoyance. He had no way of reaching it with both his hands preoccupied with food, but the prospect of his mother reporting the police after 13 missed calls was too much to handle, so he grudgingly sat his coffee on the ground and reached for his phone.

Emil checked the caller ID and groaned inwardly before answering. "What do you want, Matthias?"

_"Hey, Emmyboy!"_ The booming voice of his Danish friend blasted from the iPhone's speakers, almost drawing blood from the college student's ears.

"Jesus!" Emil moved the device a good inch or so away to save his eardrums. "Keep it down a little, will you? And what kind of nickname is that?"

Matthias laughed heartily through the phone, the music of it distorted by static. Emil had only met the eccentric Dane once, during summer break of last year when his class took a grad trip to Denmark, but he could picture Matthias's shoulders shaking as he guffawed, one hand running through a wild mane of blond hair. "_Aw, c'mon,"_ he said between laughs. _"It suits you, admit it. You're short, you act cool but you have the temper of a little kid...oh! Remember when you drank four shots of vodka and refused to talk to anyone but your invisible friend Mr. Puffin for the rest of the night_—"

"You can shut up now," the mortified Icelander cut in, flushing at the memory of the incident that was not there. "Why are you calling so early, anyway? It's barely five in the morning."

_"Right! Okay, so yesterday I was at the library looking up stuff for a paper when I found this really awesome book in the history section. It's basically a tabloid on WWI—y'know, the Illuminati and all those b.s. conspiracies people come up with—and you know what else is in it?"_

"What?" Emil entertained the Dane with a sigh. The red light blinked to a walking green man and he skillfully balanced his breakfast in one arm before crossing the street.

_"**You**_. _I swear to God, you were in there. Some Norwegian artist painted this contract being signed between Iceland and Denmark...early 1900s, I think...and that's where you were, standing behind the king of Iceland. Every last detail of you, even that weird birthmark I thought looked like a flying chicken. Can you believe it?"_

Emil opened his mouth to retort that Matthias was delusional, but the earsplitting screeching of tires drowned his words. He turned and found himself staring into the blinding headlights of a truck, so brilliant it felt as though he were looking into the sun.

Time stopped, deemed the episode insignificant, and started again.

"_Whoa, what the hell was that? Emil, you there?"_

The nineteen year old student lay broken on the cracked grey pavement, a thin trickle of blood tracing his hairline. Spilled coffee voyaged across the concrete sea before being swallowed by a blooming crimson pool. Like moths to a flame, gradually, then all at once, a ring of people began to form around the body, spurred by some morbid fascination.

Someone screamed. Someone gasped. Another choked on their bagel before dialing 911.

"_Fuck, I hear sirens! Holy shit, are you okay?!"_

Static.

_..._

The police arrived sooner than everyone expected, eager for anything even remotely more interesting than a convenience store heist. The ambulance followed with considerably less enthusiasm, but submitted to its duty and carried the body away. For a while the audience lingered, anticipating a second climax, but the ticking seconds wound them back to their routines.

The day carried on in whispers. By noon, however, the mood had relaxed again. In the middle of small talk people would bring up the incident, and each participant in the discussion would fall into solemn quiet for a heartbeat's time. Pity that one so young would be so unfortunate.

Within 48 hours a Facebook page was made for the boy, after which it unsurprising transformed into more of a social advocacy. For conversation filler, his friends would chat about what they'd surprise him with when he woke up. The boy's only family, his mother, came to visit, tear stains tattooed permanently on her cheeks. Tino closed his shop for a week to stay by his side.

Thus the Icelandic boy tasted ephemeral fame. Yet none of this would ever be known to him, because from the moment fate intervened, Emil Steilsson had long since ceased to exist.

...

**guilty pleasure fic whoops.**

**updates every once in infinity.**


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